


We Had a Good Time Crossin' Those Lines

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Frottage, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Maybe A Little Plot, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 17:11:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter has a spell cast on him, and he either finds release, or dies. The pack seems adamant on chaining him up though, that is, until Stiles had that gorgeous mouth of his comes along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Had a Good Time Crossin' Those Lines

**Author's Note:**

> I've seen enough Sterek stories with this, but not nearly enough peterstiles. Sorry not sorry. Also special thanks to tsuuu for the feedback (and also distracting me with her awesome, but that's another story all together). :D

In the corner, chained to the wall, Peter is panting, sweat soaking his clothes. He’s burning from the inside out – he’s not on fire, no, but he might as well be. It’s been like this for the past two or three hours, he can’t be sure, but it very well feels like it’s been days at least. Grinding his teeth together, he curses every hunter on the face of the planet and the witch who sided with them by casting this spell on him in their defense. Making him go into heat like some fucking _dog_. Even worse, the spell is sure to kill him if it isn’t remedied quickly, and Peter is not about to die engulfed in flames – however figurative they may be at this moment – again.  

 He’s not much of a praying type, but at that moment he prays to whatever’s out there that the witch burns in hell for this brand of suffering she flung on him. He doesn’t have much time and this idiot pack isn’t doing much to help. They figured they’d just lock him up in the cellar of the Hale House – twisted little shits – and try to find a “safe” way to break the spell. For Pete’s sake, give him a break.

“Perhaps if you unchained me I could handle this myself,” he grits out, testing the restraints by yanking at them periodically. He figures he can wrench out of them if he applies enough force, but he’ll save that for when he can get the pack to vacate the area, otherwise they’ll be sure to stop him.

Derek, the bastard, just glares at him and says, “That wouldn’t work and you know it. Besides, all you’d do is run out and hurt someone.”

Peter rolls his eyes at his nephew, “Well, if you waste any more time, then I’ll be dead.”

“Maybe that isn’t such a bad thing,” Scott retorts.

“But you need me and you know it,” Peter smirks, because they do. Without him they wouldn’t have survived this long. He’s the one with all the information on how the Alpha Pack works. Their weaknesses and strengths. And not only that – he has a bank of knowledge on supernatural entities that they have yet to even think of, some knowledge that even Deaton or the Argents don’t have.  

They hate it so much and he loves that they do, because there is nothing they can do about it, really. They could only learn to accept his presence, and hope he wouldn’t stab them in the back. Which, he probably will, but there’s a time for that and now isn’t it.

“That doesn’t mean we’re going to make some poor bastard suffer for you.”

Peter throws his head back, riding a particularly strong wave of heat, before panting out a response, “ _Please_ , they’d enjoy every minute,” he gasps out haughtily and then moves his head to sneer at Derek, “Maybe _you_ should take one for the team. After all, you are the _Alpha_.”

At that, Derek snarls, eyes flashing red while Peter barks out a twisted laugh. It was too easy to get under Derek’s skin sometimes. Though, he probably would have lunged forward to slash at Peter’s neck again if it weren’t for a rather loud entrance.

 “I’ve got good news and bad news, people. Werewolves...were-people. Wolf people? ”

And it was Stiles, his mouth as out of control as ever.

Peter’s cock twitched at the thought of the young man’s mouth. Derek might have somehow noticed from the look he sent Peter’s way, but the older Hale couldn’t care less.

“What did Deaton say?” Isaac asked, first time he spoke after the whole problem started.

“There is a way to fix Peter’s, uh, state. There’s this herb that does wonders for healing and breaking spells, apparently. It’s called a foxglove. The flower is tubular, shaped like a finger of a glove and it grows in bunches on stalks that are, like, three to five inches in height?  They come in a few different colors but the one to look for is pinkish. Or kind of purple. Well, it’s more of a lavend–“

“Where can we find it?” Derek cut him off impatiently, but it wasn’t like Stiles didn’t expect it. He did give the alpha a dirty look, however.

 “The woods.”

Derek narrows his eyes, “That’s it?  That’s all you can give me? ‘The woods’? Do you know how long it’ll take for us to find one fucking flower?”

“Well I got more information than any of you did! And if it’ll take so long then I suggest you guys go now. I’ll stay and keep an eye on the asshole over there,” Stiles waves his hand in Peter’s direction to indicate the asshole he was talking about.

Scott made a noise of protest, “Dude, no way I’m leaving you with him.”

“The guy is all chained up, Scott. Besides, Deaton gave me mountain ash. I’m good,” Stiles rolls his eyes.

“I’m right here you know,” Peter drawls, “Teenagers these days. So _rude_.”

“Shut up,” Derek tells his uncle before turning to Stiles, “You’re the only one who knows how the flower looks like, Stiles. You’re coming.”

“Yes, because I can definitely see in the pitch black night of the woods,” Stiles says, “Look, I’ll be tripping over everything and slowing you guys down, and we’re short on time. I have a printout for you so you can find the flower anyway.”

Stiles takes out a folded piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to Derek. Sure enough, there’s a picture of the flower when Derek opens it up. As Derek studies it, Stiles throws his keys at Scott.

“Go now. And don’t scratch my baby.”

Derek levels him with a look, “Don’t go near him, okay?”

“Yeah, Stiles,” Scott agreed – and what a fucking miracle that was, “be careful. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Stiles scoffs and makes a gesture as if he had no clue what they were even talking about. Derek gives him a stern look and then walks out, Scott and Isaac following behind him. There was a bout of silence after that. A few minutes passed and Stiles spun on his heel, stalking towards the area where Peter was chained up.

The werewolf leaned forward as far as he could, a sharp grin spreading across his face.

“So, Stiles. Why all the lying?”

Peter tilts his head, taking in Stiles’ startled reaction.

“You said there was a fix for me, and you talked about how the flower is used to break spells, but you never explicitly stated that the flower would help _me_. Half-truths are still lies, Stiles.”

Stiles didn’t answer right away. He pressed his lips into a thin line and studied the werewolf in front of him, body tensed. He thought he was doing a good job hiding it – his heart hadn’t skipped once despite his nerves, but of course Peter would still notice. The man was too sharp for his own good. Stiles takes in a deep breath, and slowly exhales.

“Deaton said the spell was too strong to break. The only way to get rid of it is if you carry out what the spell was intended for.”

Peter’s nostrils flared, and he flexed his hands – now clawed hands – as he bared his teeth.

“And you didn’t explain this before, why?” Peter gritted out.

Stiles tensed even further, body frozen. He clenched and unclenched his jaw and hands. He doesn’t want to do it, but he knows he has to. Peter is an asset to the pack, and Stiles’ll be damned if he lets something that’ll help keep him and Scott alive go. And if he’ll feel disgusted with himself afterwards, who cares? It’s not like he doesn’t already feel that way most of the time. His eyes grew intense, locking onto Peter’s feral expression, as he bit down hard on his lip. In seconds, he relaxed, coming to a decision. To Peter’s surprise, Stiles dropped down to his knees, hands grabbing a hold of the zipper of Peter’s jeans.

“I’m not doing this for you. Just so you know,” he says, slowly pulling down the zipper, face impassive, with just a trace of trepidation underneath.

Peter’s eyes flash an eerie blue as he watches Stiles’ long, pale fingers open his jeans and tug them down. Free, Peter’s erection bobs in front of Stiles’ face, because _of course_ the man didn’t wear any underwear. Stiles raises a brow up at the chained man.

“Really, Peter?”

“Just get your mouth on me, Stiles,” Peter says through his teeth, straining to get his body as close to Stiles as the chains allowed him. The amount of _want_ need _want_ burning through his veins was making him dizzy.

“I’m sure it’ll satisfy that oral fixation of yours,” he adds scornfully, because it was hard not to notice how the boy always had something in or around his mouth no matter what he was doing or where he was.

Stiles glares up at him then, but he doesn’t say anything; he just takes Peter into his mouth – only to slide his mouth right back off. _God_ _damn_ _it_. Peter bit back a howl of frustration as Stiles took time to contemplate the taste in his mouth. It was definitely salty, musky even, but Stiles isn’t necessarily sure he likes it. He licks a stripe up Peter’s length, and swipes his tongue over the slit of Peter’s cock before pausing again. Glancing up, Stiles can see the way Peter’s chest heaves, the way his eyes flutter and jaw goes slack – and something in him stirs, because _he_ ’s doing that; _he’s_ the one causing Peter to writhe the way he is.

 He moans softly, sucking at the head of Peter’s cock, and his own dick twitches at the gasp Peter makes. Right here, right now, Stiles has all this power over him – and _fuck_ does that get to him; he can feel himself getting hard too and he can’t be bothered to pretend otherwise. He should be freaking out right now, but he finds he rather likes it too much. He won’t admit it though, he’ll never admit it. He’ll lie if asked, even if Peter would be able to hear as much. Fucking werewolves.

“More, Stiles,” Peter orders, and when he looks down, the boy is giving him the biggest shit eating grin he’s ever seen.

“How about a please?” he says, giving only a tiny (obscene) kiss to the tip of Peter’s cock. The little asshole.

“Stiles,” he growls a warning.

But the boy only huffs out a husky chuckle and mouths at him. Stiles lets his tongues trail up and down Peter’s length, swirl around the head – just toying with him. He slid his hands up Peter’s thighs and gripped them, nipping at the hanging flesh in front of him.

And apparently that’s what it took to get Peter to snap. Above him, Stiles hears the screech of twisting metal before it breaks, and there’s a hand sliding through his hair, fisting it. Stiles groans at the sharp pain of his hair being pulled; he fucking _knew_ he shouldn’t have let his hair grow. When Peter gives another hard tug, Stiles’ mouth drops open in a gasp, and Peter takes the opportunity to shove his cock in.

Stiles makes a sound of protest, and Peter pulls out, only to thrust back in harder, making him gag. Peter doesn’t show any signs of stopping though, so Stiles learns to breathe through his nose, let’s his jaw go as slack as it can, and his eyes go half-lidded at the moans he hears slipping out from Peter’s lips. Soon Stiles finds himself digging his nails into Peter’s thighs, and then reaching around to caress Peter’s balls in his hand, urging the older man on. And with a glance upwards, Stiles can see when Peter’s head falls back, the tendons in his neck straining as he tightens his fist in Stiles’ hair.

Stiles tightens his lips around Peter and sucks with earnest, and Peter literally _howls_.

“Fuck, Stiles,” he gasps, “Your _mouth_.”

And if his mouth wasn’t full, Stiles would say, “Well, I think that’s what you’re doing.”

Peter is groaning, deep and low, cock hitting the back of Stiles’ throat with every jerk of his hips. Stiles grabs onto Peter’s ass and _squeezes,_ enjoying the firm globes underneath his hands. The moan coming out of Stiles’ mouth this time can’t be described as anything other than filthy. His jaw aches, his knees are sore, and his dick is painfully hard now, but the feeling of Peter’s cock on his tongue, filling his mouth, is almost euphoric.

“Stiles,” Peter’s growling, fangs cutting into his lip, “God, who knew you’d be such a cock-slut? So eager. You’re practically begging for it.”

Stiles makes a growling noise of his own and purposely slips in a tooth or two. It does the opposite of what he’d intended though, because all Peter does is hisses, and it feels like he gets harder (is that even fucking possible, holy shit, Stiles thinks) in Stiles’ mouth, and Stiles can taste the bit of pre-come leaking out his cock.

Stiles glares up at him, and is met with Peter’s stupid glowing eyes and smug face.

With the hand that isn’t curled in Stiles’ hair, Peter strokes Stiles’ face, almost tenderly.

“It would have been different if you’d accepted my offer, you know,” he coos.

“I would have probably bent you right over and fucked you right after I dealt with the Argents,” and he thrusted even harder, seemingly spurred on by his train of thought, “I bet you would have begged me to do it too, even if I was drenched in blood. What do you think, Stiles?”

 _I think you’re a psycho,_ Stiles wants to say, but he can’t with his mouth full like this, and Peter doesn’t really seem to care for a response either. The werewolf decides to push two fingers alongside his cock, down Stiles’ throat, pressing on Stiles’ tongue as sharp pants tumble out of his mouth.

And _oh shit, too much,_ Stiles thinks, eyes rolling to the back of his head. He makes these small, helpless noises, and tears are prickling the corners of his eyes, but he takes it. And soon enough Peter’s fingers slip out of Stiles’ mouth to cradle his jaw , while the fingers in Stiles’ hair go lax as he spills down Stiles’ throat with a shout. Gasping, Peter slumps back on the wall he was previously chained on, but he keeps coming in hot spurts, the strength of his orgasm sending tremors all over his body. The searing pain of the curse replaced with an almost comforting warm buzz.

It’s a wonder that Stiles doesn’t choke, and he takes Peter’s temporary state of boneless-ness as an opportunity to slide his mouth off of Peter’s cock. It slips out of his lips, smearing come over them and down his chin, and Stiles finds himself licking his lips and swallowing before he realizes what he’s doing. He makes a show of wiping at his mouth and spitting out what hasn’t already gone down his throat, but Peter had already seen the way his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down when he’d swallowed.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off Stiles for a moment, staring hungrily at the boy’s red, and used mouth. Stiles leaned back to sit on his butt to give his knees a rest, stretching his legs out in front of him. He briefly thinks about how they must be bruised by now, but shakes the thought away as he has more important issues to address.

“Now you owe me,” Stiles rasps, and _fuck_ his voice is absolutely _wrecked_.  

“Oh?” Peter raises a brow, “Do I, now?”

The glare Stiles sends Peter’s way does nothing but make the heat pool in his groin. Peter decides to smirk at the boy then. Licking at his chops would probably be too much, he thinks.

“Yes,” Stiles growls, “I didn’t _save your life_ for free. When I need help – when I ask for your help later, you _are_ going to help me.”

Peter slinks off the wall, closer to Stiles, “And if I don’t, Stiles?”

Stiles narrows his eyes, and opens his mouth to retort, but Peter effectively cuts him off by straddling him.

“And what if I wanted to repay you in my own way?” he whisper’s into Stiles’ ear, sliding his hands over the very obvious bulge in the boy’s pants.

Stiles gulps, and promptly pushes Peter off of him, scrambling back only to have Peter grab him again, and pin him down onto the cold floor.

“ _No_. I don’t want that.” Stiles admonishes, and Peter lets out a mean laugh.

“Always with the lying, Stiles. Even if I couldn’t hear your heart beat, _this_ ,” he Peter squeezes Stiles through his jeans, causing him to gasp, “Would tell me otherwise.”

“It’s not –“

Peter doesn’t let the boy finish, instead he crashes his mouth into Stiles’, bites at his wrecked lips and makes them worse. He licks at the blood welling up before shoving his tongue in Stiles’ mouth, exploring and reveling in the fact that he can taste himself there. The boy fights to take control of the kiss, and Peter feels himself hardening again. He opens Stiles’ pants with one hand and pulls down, taking his underwear down with it. In seconds Stiles’d dick is free from restricting denim and cotton.

“Peter, please,” Stiles gasps when Peter breaks the kiss, but he doesn’t finish the sentence because he’s not entirely sure he’s ready for Peter to stop, as fucked up as this all is. But of course Peter had no intentions of stopping – he just moves to bite and suck at Stiles’ neck, and Stiles is sure there’ll be a huge mark there for a few days.

And Stiles is pissed, because he didn’t want anyone to know about this whole thing and it’s going to be really hard to cover the hickey that he can basically feel forming without makeup. In retaliation, Stiles rips at the shirt Peter still had on, and laughed at the way the buttons scattered everywhere. And Peter growls, because he actually liked the shirt, and takes it off all the way before ripping off Stiles’ in revenge.

“Damn it, Peter!” Stiles yells, voice still rough, and Peter laughs at him before shutting him up with his mouth again.

Their movements are frenzied then, heated, as if somehow they both had the spell casted on them again.  Peter bites Stiles all over, hard, and sometimes breaking skin, while Stiles scratches at Peter’s back and shoulder, not caring at all how rough he’s being because Peter will just heal anyway. They rut into each other, and Stiles’ hand finds its way into Peter’s hair, holding it in a tight grip like Peter had done to him only moments before.

They moan together when Peter’s hand finds itself between them, grabbing their cocks together in his fist. Peter jerks them off hard and fast using the spit and come left on his dick, and the pre-come of Stiles to slick the way. And Stiles hates that he loves it, the way Peter works him – the way he counts every bruise and bite mark and scratch on his skin as a blessing.

Their breaths mix together in pants between attacking each other’s mouths – because it can’t really be called kissing, the way they’re going at each other. It’s not too long before they both find release, come splattering all over Stiles’ stomach.

Peter collapses on Stiles then and they both blink rapidly at the disorientation they feel at the intense orgasm they just shared. When he recovers, though, Stiles pushes at Peter to get the man off of him – and Peter obliges, only to roll over and plaster himself against the boy’s back and throw an arm around him, caging him in. Stiles merely rolls his eyes in annoyance. They’re both panting, and sweaty, and covered in come – the epitome of disgusting, really.

“This doesn’t change shit, Peter,” Stiles says, ruining Peter’s afterglow, “You still owe me. In fact, maybe you owe me twice. You know, for getting a piece of this.”

Peter chuckles into the boy’s neck, slides his hand to palm at Stiles’ ass and whispers,

“Next time, I’m going to fuck this ass of yours.”

Stiles swallows. Well. That was rather crude. Not to mention presumptuous.

“It’s hilarious that you think there’ll be a next time,” he snarks.

“It’s hilarious that you’re trying to tell yourself there won’t be,” Peter comes back easily, teeth scraping at the shell of Stiles’ ear.

Stiles shudders, and he doesn’t know if it’s because of Peter’s words or actions. Probably both.

“I fucking hate you,” he spits, glaring at the empty space in front of him.

Peter hums in response, enjoying the way the boy seethes in his arms.

“Perhaps you should go. The pack will be coming back soon. I’m sure I can come up with a good cover up,” Peter says, “After all, you wanted to keep us a secret, right Stiles?”

Stiles grinds his teeth at the way Peter says “us” like there really was.

Delusional, psychotic _bastard_.

“There won’t be a next time,” Stiles says.

And then he curses himself, because from the way Peter’s smirking, he knows the wolf heard the lie.

“Of course, Stiles.”

\---

A week later Stiles comes home to find Peter Hale on his bed, laying down with his arms crossed behind his head as if he belonged there. The smug bastard had even taken off his shoes to get comfortable, placing them by the window. Stiles couldn’t help the string of profanities that came out of his mouth but he shuts up completely when Peter rises off the bed and prowls towards him, crowding him against the closed door of his bedroom.

“Hello to you too, Stiles,” he leers, and how Stiles wants to wipe the look off his face, “You ready for that next time?”

Stiles inhales sharply.

But he doesn’t say no.

**Author's Note:**

> This seriously got way out of hand. Basically 3k of smut, what am I doing with my life.


End file.
